The Coat
by Casscaro
Summary: New York, 1977. Well, the black leather duster deserves a backstory.


It was all down to the coat.

She'd found the box on her sofa when she finally dragged herself, gritty-eyed and reluctant, from her bed. It lay there as if discarded, roughly wrapped, no label, looking somehow vaguely embarrassed. Didn't do to dwell on how he'd got in without a key, and, as she pulled the soft, expensively pliant black hide from the wrappings, didn't do to second guess how he'd got hold of such a classy bit of leather either. She smiled and rubbed the coat against her cheek, breathing the warm, animal smell of it. He sure knew how to impress a lady – and, she admitted as the thought of him brought a rush of heat to her gut, this lady was probably impressed enough.

She'd known him for a few weeks now, although he'd been on her radar as someone who walked a fine line between the dark and the light for longer. He was one beautiful man, strong and self-assured, confident that his reputation would get him what he wanted when he wanted it. Turned out he wanted her and she'd been kind of surprised when her initial rejections hadn't phased him, at his unexpected preparedness to let her set the pace. With this one, that pace was going to be slow; despite the temptation to find temporary oblivion in his bed she was in no hurry.

She'd learnt quickly that the anticipation was always better than the act. The breathless of new desire, the sharp ache twisting in her gut, the tang of the unknown, the honeyed hope that maybe… maybe this one would be different. And maybe this one really would. Maybe the strong, sculpted muscles of his big, hard body, the bad boy attitude, the flashes of dark anger she'd seen him turn on others and reputation for readiness with the sharp silver sliver of the flick knife he carried would answer a need in her she fought and failed to ignore.

Maybe.

She made her way to the window and drew back the drapes, wincing as the weak autumn light hit her night-accustomed eyes. The strip of sky high above the solid walls of the brownstones was heavy, leaden with the promise of rain. She threw open her window to the sounds of the city, leaned against the sill and took a deep breath of cool air rich with the smell of gasoline fumes, fried onions and humanity, and the all-pervasive sweetness of ganja drifting up from the small group sitting on the steps to her building, huddled against the gritty breeze. One of them looked up and saw her, raised the joint on a grin and a question. She shook her head as she always did and he shrugged, mocked her familiar refusal with a laugh. No room in her life for anything that lulled the senses, that might distract from the mission, because the mission was what mattered and if she got it wrong… best not go there. Besides, there were better ways to escape. She let her mind drift to the taste of his mouth, the feel of him, the burn of anticipation, felt the answering rush between her thighs and wondered, running her hand lazily down over her stomach, if there was time… and then her Watcher was picking his way fastidiously between the youths on the steps, eyes down, a pile of tomes clasped protectively in his arms, muttering unnecessary apologies under his breath. _Way to go with the timing, Bernie._ She sighed and stretched, resolutely put all thoughts of the night ahead aside and went to open the door.

Later, duty done and a slightly suspicious Crowley packed off with his books on a plea of a headache and an early night, she showered and wrapped herself naked in the soft, cool hide, the satin-smooth lining sliding sensuously over her skin. He laughed when she opened the door to him, happy to have made her smile, proud of himself and the generosity of his gift. She led the way, twisting her head to blow him a kiss over her shoulder. In the candle-lit room she turned to him, her smile seductive, one eyebrow cocked, and watched his eyes widen and darken as she let the coat fall open, revealing dark velvet skin framed in darker leather, smooth and supple and brushed with gold bands from the streetlight filtering through the blinds.

He was a skilled lover – she hadn't expected anything less – careful for her pleasure, his hands sure on her body, lips, teeth and tongue seeking out the spots that made her gasp and arch into his touch. But it had been a long time and the urgency of her need overwhelmed her; turned out she wasn't prepared to play it slow after all. Afterwards, muscles and mind liquid with release, she laid against his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart settle, while he stroked her back and whispered post-coital promises against her hair that neither of them would believe in the morning. Then, for the first time in a long time, she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

At times over the next few weeks she could almost believe that this time really was different, that he understood her, that he was her match; but in the end he went, like they all did. They didn't like it when her need and drive and strength was heavier and hotter and harder than theirs, didn't like what they began to taste in her. Women shouldn't be like that - but then, she wasn't like other women.

Except, at least in one respect, it turned out she was.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The black coat hid a multitude; toned slayer muscles helped. She carried on as if nothing had happened, ignored the life growing inside, lost the panic in the adrenalin of the fight.

The time came when she couldn't hide it. She had to tell Bernard and, man, was he angry. She'd pulled the coat that wouldn't quite meet anymore close around her, and faced him, chin up, lips set, as he railed against her, her carelessness with herself, with her calling, and how – how – was she going to manage a child?

It makes no difference, she said, voice tight with defiance, it changes nothing. Still the slayer. Still the Chosen.

And then there was Robin. And things did change.

~~~~~~~~~~

Some nights she watched him sleep, lying next to him on his small bed, her nose inches from his, breathing the milky sweetness of his breath. She watched the dream-shadows chase over the perfection of his face, the sudden frown creasing his small forehead, the flicker of charcoal lashes against the plump curve of a cheek, wondered what he dreamed about, what demons stalked his childhood nights. Each night she marvelled that this perfect, delicate creature came from her, from the act that made him, that her strength could produce such fragility, such breathtaking beauty. He filled her soul with honeyed light, rescued her from the dark. But mixed with the sweetness was a fear that cut to her heart.

She'd not see him grow.

And one night that fear became a cold certainty.

~~~~~~~~~~

The rain was relentless, beating down from the night sky in angry torrents, turning the ground beneath her feet slippery with mud and rotting leaves. _Not hardly making this easy_. She kicked out, her foot making contact with a gratifying thud, throwing him back on to the ground. _But then_ , a surge of savage pleasure hit her as he fell and she shook the rain from her eyes, her smile hard, _easy gets to be dull._

He was back on his feet, grinning, exhilarated, taunting her. _Luv?_ British accent. Long way from home. But, hey, he'd dust like the home grown version. Then the fight was on again, punch and counterpunch, kicks blocked and returned, hard, feral violence in the dark, wet night. She felt her heart thundering in her chest, her breath catch, her muscles begin to burn. She grunted as a savage kick sent her staggering, and had to work hard to keep stable, to return the attack. Somewhere, at some deep level, alarm bells were beginning to ring. _Shouldn't be this hard_. Another punch and she reeled again. He took advantage of her momentary unbalance and suddenly she was down and he was straddling her, punching hard. _Too close!_ She drew deep on her remaining strength, grabbed his arm and kicked him away. She'd lost count of the number of vamps she'd fought long since, but this one, this one was different – tougher, driven, experienced – and she felt a thrill of something she hadn't felt for a long time as he got back to his feet. Fear. She lashed out blindly and her grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her, and suddenly his teeth were at her neck. There was a moment of paralysis, of core-deep shock, then the words leapt from deep in her heart, from the darkness she'd known lurked there. _Go on. Do it…_. She closed her eyes and felt a wash of something that felt like relief course through her. _It's over._

There was a sudden sound, a harsh, metallic clatter that echoed above the noise of the rain. _Robin!_ Primeval instinct took over at the thought of her son. The vampire's grip loosed, momentarily distracted by the noise, and she flung back her head, crashing her skull into his. Fear for Robin, about what she nearly allowed, fuelled her instinctive moves, gave new power to tired muscles. He was down and the stake was in her hand before he recovered, flying with deadly accuracy toward his heart as surged to his feet. She watched with horror as he caught it, easily and elegantly between his palm, inches from his chest.

He grinned at her, unconcerned, and his words cut through the night. She listened and watched, frozen, as her threw the stake back to her, heard it clatter uselessly on the pavement next to her. And then he was gone, dropping soundlessly over the wall, swallowed by the rain and the night.

For what felt like forever she stared after him, while her stunned brain reran his words'

 _Nikki_. He knew her name. This one really was different. He's sharp, tough, driven, experienced, all that and – and he knew her name.

 _I spent a long time trying to track you down._

He'd come looking for her. She stood in the rain, staring at the empty space on the wall where he'd stood and felt the fear give way to something else – a sudden calm, almost an acceptance. Just as fate had made her the slayer, fate had brought him to her. He was her destiny, better or worse, her future was through him.  
Robin's voice drew her back to the present and she went to him, tried to sooth the child's terror with promises of love and talk of missions. They set off hand in hand, but suddenly he pulled away, running back to pick up the discarded stake. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as she watched him close his small fist over the smooth wood. Someone just walked over my grave. She pushed the thought aside, resolutely turned her back on the park, and led her son home.

 _Dance with me._

His voice was darker than the night that shielded him, seductive with sin. She felt rather than saw him approach her, sensed his presence form from the darkness before the breath of his words brushed her cheek, before his cool hands caressed her waist.

She tried to say no, but the words wouldn't come and instead she closed her eyes and tried to hold herself still, to shut him out. His arms folded around her from behind, his body firm and muscular, the bulge of his cock hard against her back.

 _Hear the music? Just startin'. Just for you._

He began to move, slowly swaying to an internal rhythm that matched the heavy pulse of her blood and she found herself moving with him, mirroring the measure of his dance with her own, to a cadence resonating deep in her being.

 _Got the moves, baby._

He was smiling, she could sense it despite her closed eyes. She felt alive to him, her traitorous body tingling at his touch.

 _That's my girl._ His words purred against her hair. _You know you wanna dance…_

His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer.

 _An' when you're ready to stop…_ His voice trailed away, heavy with intimation.

His meaning was as clear to her as if she'd said the words herself. What he was offering, what lay beyond the dance, the lure of it pulled her, the memory of what she'd felt in the park when his teeth were at her neck, hot and dark and seductive with promises of answers to questions she'd never dared acknowledge.

 _You wanna know, huh? What's it like? Where does it lead you?_

He spoke them for her, his voice low and intimate.

 _You want it, don't you?_

An end. No more fear. No more uncertainty. No more missions. She sighed an acquiescence, tilting back her head, offering him her throat, her life. His teeth grazed her skin as his hand slid between her legs. She felt his tongue against the first drops of blood he'd raised, a growling chuckle against her neck as she gasped and arched hard against his hand. The sharpness of his teeth in her neck was exquisite agony, the cold pain of the bite merging with the heat of her arousal to run through her body and mind like liquid fire, consuming thought and fear and memory, drawing her to the darkness…

 _Mama!_ She woke in confusion to Robin' small arms tight around her neck, his face, wet with tears, pressed against hers. She listened to his story about a bad dream, about a man in the dark who'd come to hurt him, while her own dream churned in her mind and she fought back a rising tide of panic and nausea. She soothed his hair and held him close, rocking him gently until his sobs faded and he slept again. Then she curled against him, closed her eyes and, for the first time since she was a child herself, cried herself, silently, to sleep.

~~~~~~~~

She tucked him into the small guest bed in Crowley's crowded apartment, kissed his cheek and ran her hand over his hair. He looked up at her, eyes wide with longing, lips tight shut against the words. _I'll be back in the morning,_ she promised him. _Gotta work the mission, honey. Always come back. You know that._

The words were dust in her throat.

 _I love you,_ she managed from the door. He watched her for a long, accusing moment, then turned his face to the wall.

Crowley was waiting in the hall, his face grim. She didn't meet his eye, just picked up her coat and shrugged it on. _Love the coat…_ His words come back to haunt her and she bit down on the tang of fear. Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand to silence him. Said all they need to. All and not enough. Mission's what matters, yeah? She paused with her hand on the door. _Robin…_ as she said his name the elastic rope that seems to bind her to him stretched taut and the pain of it was almost too much to bear. Almost. She swallowed hard. _Look after him,_ she said, amazed at the steadiness of her voice. She opened the door without glancing back.

The street was quiet, unusually so, and the sounds of the city seem muted. She walked slowly, head down, focused on the steady beat of her heart, the rhythm of her breathing, tried to centre herself against a sudden coldness, a heavy weariness that settled in her bones. The thought struck her unbidden. Maybe - _maybe_ the dance has played its course. Maybe it was about to end. She pulled the soft leather of the coat tight around her against the sudden shiver of what feels like premonition.

 _And if it had?_

She paused and glanced back at the soft light in the window of Crowley's brownstone.

 _Is this it? Is tonight the night I die? Is he my death?_

She could go back inside now, she thought, stay out of the way, or take her boy and run – run away from all she knows, from the deadly pull of the thought that he's waiting for her somewhere out there in the confusion of the city.

But that's not what she is. She wasn't made to bend, not trained to give in without a fight. She turned away from the apartment and her feet were steady again, her strong strides purposeful, head high. The mission's the thing and everything else – _everything_ else – depended on her getting the mission right. The fear left her and she felt sharp, keen as a stiletto. Sure as hell not going down without a fight; a fight for all that was right, for all she was, for the fierce love for her child that burned in her heart.

The black leather coat flared behind her like a war pennant as she broke into a run. The dance wasn't over until the music stopped – and until then she intended to dance up a storm.


End file.
